


4^7 



AN ADDRESS 

Spoken in the College Chapel^ Cambridge^ 
October 28, 1864, 

AT THE FUNERAL OF 

BRIG.-GEN. CHARLES RUSSELL LOWELL, 

WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CEDAR CREEK, 
October 19, 1864. 

By GEORGE PUTNAM. 





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AN ADDRESS 

Spoken in the College Chapel, Cambridge, 
October 28, 1864, 

AT THE FUNERAL OF 

BRIG.-GEN. CHARLES RUSSELL LOWELL, 

WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CEDAR CREEK, 
October 19, 1864. 

By GEORGE PUTNAM. 




AN ADDRESS 

spoken in the College Chapel, Cambridge, 
October 28, 1864, 

AT THE FUNERAL OF 

BRIG.-GEN. CHARLES RUSSELL LOWELL, 

WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CEDAR CREEK, 
October 19, 1864. 



By GEORGE PUTNAM 








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ADDRESS. 



THE body of Charles Russell Lowell, 
brought in honorable and affectionate cus- 
tody from the distant valley where he fell, lies 
here before us for the customary rites. 

His one brother (and what a pair was that 
in endowments and character to be the posses- 
sion and the crown of a single household !) sleeps 
at Nelson's farm on the Peninsula, and no fu- 
neral words were said over him. It was the same 
with his almost brothers in the flesh, and quite in 
the heart's affections, Robert G. Shaw and Cabot 
Russel, buried in the sands of Fort Wagner ; — 
the same with his near relative, Warren Russell, 
and his well-beloved classmate. Savage, and his 
life-long friend and compeer, Stephen G. Perkins, 
all buried in Virginia. We need not grieve for 
them on this account. The soldier, if he might 
choose for his own sake alone, would naturally 
prefer to have his resting-place on the spot 



where death found him in the way of honor and 
duty, and would ask no funeral honors but those 
of a comrade's tear, and the witnessing stars, 
and the whispered requiem of the trees ; — yet 
we will remember %hose dear and noble ones 
in this day's solemn service of love and religion. 
If these marble lips could move, they would 
bid us couple their name and memory with his. 
And they, if they still have sympathy with earth- 
ly doings, would gladly have his funeral rites 
made theirs, and their only ones, by any thought 
or mention of their names with his. They loved 
him so much, and looked up to him with such 
ardor of admiration and affection ! 

William Lowell Putnam, who fell at Ball's 
Bluff, had his burial, just three years ago this 
day, from amid the endearments of his home, 
yet his name forces itself upon my lips in 
this connection, for he was verily one with 
this kinsman, in blood, in spirit, and fraternal 
love. 

And besides these near ones, may we not 
spare a moment's space in these solemnities to 
bring to mind with him, in a com.prehensive 
kind of All-Saints commemoration, the many 
who followed him, and fell with him on that 
field of glorious daring and achievement, un- 
known to us, but valiant and faithful men, our 



friends and champions all, who gave up their 
lives with him, and for us and ours. 

I think I had better not cumber this burial- 
service with dates or minute biographical details 
of Colonel Lowell's life,* of little less than thirty 
years. These will be recited in other more du- 
rable records of him. The lesson of his life and 
of his death is what we have to contemplate 
here to-day. 

One of his most intimate associates, knit to 
him in a friendship true, tender, and lifelong, 
tells me that in his friend's childhood there was 
in him all the strength and beauty and manifold 
pre-eminence that marked his matured char- 
acter. 

Of what he was to his very own, — to the 
home of his birth, or that to which a year ago 
he bore his young bride in joy and hope, — I 
dare not in this presence say a single word. 

His college classmates, if the proprieties of 
the hour and the bursting fulness of their hearts 
would permit them to speak out here in a body, 
as they do elsewhere individually, would tell us 

* The title " Colonel " was used in the Address, and is the 
one most familiar and endeared to his family and friends. It 
was known, however, on the day of the funeral, that his com- 
mission as Brigadier-General had been issued before his death, 
on the recommendation and request of General Sheridan. 



how they all, without a dissenting mind or voice, 
regarded him in college days and ever since as 
their foremost man, — first in almost every good 
gift and acquirement, — his name the brightest 
on their page of the catalogue, — his leadership 
in the things of the intellect, and in the things 
of the heart and soul, their pride and honor. 
They would tell us how his superiority was so 
distinctly marked, so unanimously confessed, yet 
so graciously borne, that it never stirred an emo- 
tion of envy or rivalry ; but that the moments 
when they noted and felt that pre-eminence 
were moments of elevation and delight, — as 
waking up to consciousness and setting aglow 
whatever was best and noblest in themselves. 
And they would not tell us, but we know, that 
amid the memories and griefs of this hour, they 
will lay new vows of pure and noble living on 
the altar beneath which the form of their best 
man lies garlanded for the grave. 

He graduated here in 1854, with the highest 
honors, and that not only in the technical sense 
of that phrase ; but leaving in the minds of the 
instructors such respect for him, and such ex- 
pectations concerning him, as they have seldom 
entertained in an equal, and never perhaps in 
a higher, degree for a young alumnus. 

With the world before him, and competent 



for whatever career he might choose, his bias 
was for practical Hfe, for doing things rather 
than for writing or talking about them, for busi- 
ness rather than literature. He connected him- 
self successively with two or three large indus- 
trial establishments, and, with the exception of 
two years' travel in Europe for health and im- 
provement, devoted himself with his wonted zeal 
and energy to the labors and studies befitting 
his vocation. 

In April, 1861, at the first alarm of war, he 
hastened to Washington, and offered his ser- 
vices to the Government. He was accepted, 
and henceforth his brief history identifies it- 
self with that of the Army of the Potomac, and 
its auxiliary forces and adjacent departments. 
I must omit the incidents of his career as a 
captain in the United States Cavalry service, as 
commander of the Second Massachusetts Cavalry, 
and finally of a brigade. I must not indulge 
myself in following him through hi^ long cam- 
paigning and his numerous battles, except to say 
that wherever was the most active and perilous 
service, there he most wished to be, and full 
often had his wish. 

When he entered the army, he was determined 
in his choice, no doubt, by the exigency of the 
time. The controlling motive with him, as it 



has been with so many of our noblest, was a 
lofty and unselfish patriotism. He would live 
for his country, and die for it, if so it should 
be ordered. But apart from this high motive, 
those who knew him best judged that he had 
chosen wisely, as being admirably fitted for a 
military career. Perhaps their sense of the 
manifoldness and completeness of his mental 
and moral forces and furnishings would have 
led them to the same prejudgment of him in 
connection with any other mode of activity 
that he might have chosen. At any rate, they 
so judged in respect to this which he did 
adopt. 

He had a lithe and intensely vital frame, 
with not an ounce of superfluous weight, and 
every fibre of it on the stretch, as with a self- 
moving activity. He had a flashing quickness 
of intellectual perception, a keen, exhaustive 
power of analysis, and intense concentrative- 
ness of mind, which would give him a rapid 
and thorough mastery of military science, and 
in the field would enable him to form rapid 
and extended combinations, and make him 
quick and sure in devising expedients for the 
exigencies of the moment. With all the fervor 
of his make, he had a self-possession absolutely 
imperturbable by temper or any passion. He 



had a high degree of executive ability for car- 
rying straight out a pre-arranged plan or a sud- 
den purpose. There was born in him the spirit 
of command, which made him a ruler of men, 
not by assumption of power, but by the anoint- 
ing of God. He bore sway in the private friend- 
ly circle, where he claimed and exacted nothing, 
and would bear it not less, we might be sure, 
in a sphere where authority became a duty. He 
was endowed with that magnetic, inspiring pow- 
er, which we cannot define or trace, but know 
it when we feel it or observe its working, by 
which he could communicate with a flash his 
thought, his will, his impulse, to those in con- 
tact with him, whether one man or a thousand ; 
so that where he led he would be followed, 
through whatever storm of fire and death. 
With all his rigor of will and absoluteness of 
command, he had what is becoming in a com- 
mander, — great sweetness, gentleness, tender- 
ness of spirit, that softened away all harshness. 
His men, we are assured, loved him as a broth- 
er ; and perhaps those men, rough and hard it 
may be, but with hearts in them, and feeling 
the warmth of his, know better than most of 
us, or than we need tell if we did, what he 
must have been as son and brother and hus- 
band in his home. 



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He carried into the army the same principle 
that he had acted on in the mill and the mine, 
that of doing his utmost to raise and enlighten 
those about him. He gathered around him the 
men connected with his head-quarters, to give 
them, in leisure hours, systematic instruction in 
matters improving to themselves and useful to 
the service. This was in the spirit of a plan 
formed by him while in college, and elaborated 
even to its details. He was deeply impressed 
with the value of the peculiar advantages of 
education which he had enjoyed, as compared 
with the less favored classes. He felt that he 
owed a great debt somewhere, and must pay 
it somehow, and this was to be his way of pay- 
ing it, — to devote the best efforts of his life to 
raising the standard of knowledge and charac- 
ter among working men. 

Of his personal bravery I know not what 
would have been predicted, but what it proved 
to be in fact is known to all who have watched 
his course. Let those thirteen horses shot un- 
der him in this single glorious campaign of the 
Shenandoah bear their dumb testimony, and 
tell us where their rider was to be found when 
the fight waxed hottest on the perilous edge of 
battle. It was in him far more and higher than 
the mere courage of the heated conflict ; it was 



II 



the valor of a predetermined and unreserved 
self-devotion ; it was the calm, complete renun- 
ciation of every thought of the chances of life 
or death, whenever a military duty or a military 
opportunity pointed out his way. He was the 
man to lead a charge. He could not falter ; nor 
hardly could one man in his ranks falter, with 
him at the head. In his last gallant and suc- 
cessful charge, he would not heed his first 
wound, which struck him speechless, and prob- 
ably would have proved fatal. He would not 
retire, but pressed on, till the second came, and 
then there was no choice for him. He lingered 
some hours without pain, and then yielded up 
his life, with a certain tenderness of regret it 
must have been, for he knew the hearts that 
yearned toward him from afar ; yet submis- 
sively, for it was God's will ; cheerfully, for it 
was for his dear country ; triumphantly, for it 
was in the arms of victory. 

O friends, I leave it to you to fill up, from 
your own memories and affections, my poor, 
faint outline of the character and life of this 
true man and soldier. Fill it up for yourselves, 
young men, and release me from further at- 
tempts ; for I am of another generation, and too 
old to do it in such colors and proportions as 
are claimed for it by your better knowledge. 



12 

quicker sympathies, and more ardent appre- 
ciation. 

And now, has this fair spirit fled too early, — 
this fresh, strong life closed too soon ? Too 
soon, we say, when we think of the high earthly 
possibilities and promises contained in it. Too 
soon, we say, when we think of our country's 
need of such as he. Too soon, we say, when we 
take counsel only with the affections. Our poor, 
fond hearts do so cling to their beloved, and 
demand the sight of the eyes, and the contin- 
uance of these visible ties, and do feel so des- 
olate in the anguish of parting. 

And yet not too soon, friends ! From the 
highest plane of thought and feeling, — the 
plane above the senses, the understanding, and 
even the heart, — from the plane of the soul, the 
serene heights of faith, we must say, and we will 
and do. Not too soon ! There is an all-wise 
Disposer of the issues of life and death, and 
present being opens into the life eternal, and 
therefore it cannot be too soon. 

And, moreover, in the supreme believing 
moods of the soul, we know that the value of a 
life consists not in its length, but in the character 
attained and the work done in it. A short life 
may be very complete, and a long one may be 
all shapeless and ravelled. To the good and 



13 

faithful, there is no such thing as untimely 
death. The fruits of the spirit are always ripe 
for the heavenly garners, and though the reaper 
come before the harvest-time, it is not too 
soon. 

"He liveth long who liveth well; 
All other life is short and vain." 

Says the Book of Wisdom : " Honorable age is 
not that which standeth in length of time, nor 
that is measured by number of years. But 
wisdom is the gray hair unto men, and an un- 
spotted life is old age. He pleased God and 
was beloved of him, so that he was translated. 
And, being made perfect in a short time, he 
fulfilled a long time. For his soul pleased the 
Lord ; therefore hasted he to take him away." 
The divinest life the All-Father ever sent into 
this world, — I will make no irreverent compar- 
ison, — the life of his best-beloved Son, inspired, 
guided, kept by his own Holy Spirit, for his own 
highest designs, continued here but a little over 
thirty years ; yet was it not long enough for its 
own perfecting and readiness to be glorified, 
long enough for doing all the Father's will, and 
long enough for sending light, comfort, and a sav- 
ing power over the world and through the ages ? 
And those who have most resembled that high- 
est one, how often do we see them fade in death. 



14 

or rather flower up into immortality, in the dew 
of their youth, or the prime of their beauty and 
power ! Heaven wants them, and opens its 
pearly gates for them ; and they go up in the 
light of the morning sun, to be crowned and 
forwarded on their eternal course. 

And this life, over whose close we meditate, 
and pray, and weep to-day, — do not murmur that 
it has been short in the reckoning of our earthly 
calendar. Think, rather, how rich, how beauti- 
ful, how highly inspired and nobly spent it has 
been, — and still is; for is it not here still, here 
in its dear and sacred memories, here in its good 
fruits and energizing influences, and all the 
sweet companionships of the spirit ? Was he 
ever so dearly loved as to-day ? Was he ever so 
near as now to those to whom he has been 
always nearest .'* Was he ever before so wholly, 
so unalterably, so inseparably, their very own ? 

O, we must have patience with our poor 
frail hearts, if they keep yearning on to have 
their precious treasures present to the eye and 
the embrace, and if they bleed and break in 
the seeming separation, and refuse to be com- 
forted at once in that unutterable pain and 
loneliness, — patience and forgiveness, — for the 
heart cannot see afar, and would fain keep its 
earthly home and joy unbroken, — Patience ! 



15 

And yet we would learn, in devout and up- 
lifted thought, to go up often and high into 
the mount of God, the mount of the soul's 
wide vision, where we may see and know that 
the true life is imperishable ; and that it stays 
most vital when it seems to go away ; and 
that death, though it come to such as he, so 
loved and so yearned for, comes of God's love, 
and not untimely, — that it must be right, best, 
happiest, as it is. 

The frequency with which we are called to 
follow to their graves, or else are denied by 
the harsh exigencies of war the privilege of 
so following, our best and bravest, cut down 
so many in the flower of their age and the 
ripeness of their promise, may force on us at 
times painful misgivings as to the price we are 
paying for our country's salvation, and whether 
it is not paying too much. But no, not too 
much ! Think it not ! If ever we might be 
permitted to think it, it would be here and 
now. But far from us be the unworthy thought. 
It would profane this solemn hour, and mock 
this sacred presence. 

This mighty mother of us all, our country, is 
indeed just now severe and exorbitant in her ex- 
actions upon us. She summons from the homes 
of her domain their best and dearest, and ap- 



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points to them toil and hardship and peril. She 
steeps her soil in her children's most precious 
blood. She tears her brightest jewels from her 
own forehead, and flings them in the dust. She 
sends daily her swift messengers of grief and 
desolation from heart to heart, and from house 
to house, throughout her borders. She does all 
this ; but she does it not in cruelty, but in love, 
that she may preserve her own glorious life, 
her own imperial sovereignty, and her benig- 
nant power to bless her children, and fold them 
under her brooding wings, to nourish and keep 
them, as she only can, in freedom, in honor, and 
in peace. And thus she pays the stupendous 
debt she owes to her afflicted people. 

And she pays it not only in the promise of 
future blessing and protection, but she pays it 
now, daily, amply, and that in a higher currency 
than that of the mortal life and blood which 
she exacts. She pays it over and over in the 
ennobling loyalty which she awakens in mil- 
lions of souls ; by the high inspiration of sac- 
rifice and devotion which she in her needs 
and distresses sends thrilling, mounting, blaz- 
ing through her children's hearts ; by the ener- 
gies she calls forth ; by the manhood she creates 
to meet her exigencies ; and by the opportu- 
nities and the stimulants she provides for an 



17 

earnest life and noble heroisms. Oh ! she pays 
all the debt and more. She takes but mortal 
life, she gives the soul's life : she takes but 
perishable treasures, she pays back the durable 
riches. 

The young life which so lately animated the 
form that lies shrouded there, — she, the great 
mother, has scarcely claimed and taken one 
more precious ; but she has paid for it, — 
paid ////;/, and that in advance, and he knew 
it, felt it, — paid him in the splendid sphere 
of duty and sacrifice she opened to him, always 
to the ingenuous and nobly aspiring mind, the 
dearest boon that heaven or earth can grant, 
— in the loftier spirit she breathed into him, 
whereby to do valiantly, to live greatly, to die 
willingly. 

And those who loved that life better than 
their own, — she pays them ; pays them in a 
hero's sweet and glorious memory, made their 
own forever, and to be to them henceforth, 
though amid raining tears and unutterable 
griefs, the divinest beauty, the sacred pride 
and joy and hope of their lives. 

So we must not grudge what our dear coun- 
try has required of us, but must give more, 
and take back her infinite compensations, — 
give all she asks and needs, — give ourselves 



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and our dearest, — and give on, and to the 
uttermost, till she is redeemed, rehabilitated, 
re-enthroned, the fairest, freest, benignest, most 
majestic among the empires of the earth. 
. And now let the young men take up tenderly 
this dear burden of their friend's body, and 
bear it forth to yonder garden of the Lord, and 
lay it reverently down in its place to rest in 
that sleep which God giveth to his beloved. 
The soul, already ascended, lives the new life 
with God, — to live and grow forever in power 
and love and blessedness, — and yet abides here 
also, more living than ever, for example, for 
inspiration, and all comforting and uplifting 
influence. 

Farewell, thou sleeping form ! All hail, thou 
glorified and ever-living spirit ! 



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